Papa's Song
by fourleafed
Summary: Blaine and Kurt's kids wrote a Christmas song that Kurt will never hear.


"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"What did we get for Papa this year?"

Blaine swirls the wine around in his glass and stares at it before answering. "We got him a song," he says softly. "Remember?"

James tugs on his sleeve to get him to look him in the eye. It works.

"I remember," he says, his wide brown eyes softening when they meet his father's. "Can we play it for him now?"

Blaine gazes back at his wine for a little longer. "Yeah. Get your sister first, though."

James turns and runs towards the stairs to shout, "Mari! We're gonna play Papa's song now. Hurry up!"

A second later, a slim brunette girl bounces down the steps. Blaine can't help but chuckle to himself at the way she carries herself; weighted with a sadness, but proud and determined. Light, somehow. Like her papa.

"I don't want to," she says. The baby fat left on her face makes her pout look less serious, but her eyes are a watery blue. She's near tears.

"What about the part you wrote?" Blaine asks. "I think Papa wants to hear that part."

Mari shakes her head, her lips tightening.

Blaine sets his glass down and moves across the room to the piano. "That's okay. You can listen to our parts, okay? And then if you want to, you can sing yours."

She doesn't reply but she sits on the bottom step and waits.

James, who has been sitting on the bench bouncing a little in anticipation, slides down and makes room for Blaine.

Blaine begins to play. The opening chords sound a lot like "Teenage Dream," but slower and softer and a little mixed up. He hums the opening bars and starts singing, softly at first, then getting caught up in the way it feels and letting go, nearly belting his last line. James accidentally-on-purpose plunks a key to remind Blaine that it's his turn, and Blaine quiets. He plays up the keys softly while James sings. He's good, even for a four-year-old. Blaine has to laugh at the lyrics he wrote himself-"You wear shoes/I don't like shoes/You have good hair." They hum a little to lead into the chorus, which all three of them wrote together. Blaine looks toward Mari. She stays on the step, but she hums with them. Blaine smiles at her. When the chorus is done, he plays her part and she sings softly. She asked for Blaine's help to write her lyrics. Even though he's heard them before, his heart breaks a little when she says "Come home."

Mari is seven now. James is almost five. James remembers less than Mari. He remembers Kurt's fashion sense and his neatness. He remembers his hugs and that he was very tall, "like a giant. But a nice giant." And sometimes he says "Papa has a pretty voice, right, Dad?" and Blaine says, Yes, James, he does.

Mari remembers a little more. Probably more than she will tell, Blaine thinks. Sometimes he catches her staring at herself in the mirror and he's sure she's seeing her papa in her eyes. Their eyes are almost the same.

The song ends with a "Merry Christmas, we love you," and they are all sitting on the bench now. Blaine squeezes both kids into a hug (which Mari almost immediately tries to squirm out of).

Kurt was not much older than Mari when his mother died of the same disease that would eventually take him.

After Kurt's death, the kids had both been tested. They'd been pretty sure that James was Blaine's and Mari was Kurt's, but they'd both been tested anyway. They were fine.

But they weren't fine.

Blaine wasn't fine.

Blaine did not believe they would ever be fine.

But James is bouncing in his seat, climbing onto the piano and making up a new song. Mari is trying to glare at her little brother but she's smiling, the blue of her eyes not quite reaching that icy shade that Kurt's got when he was really annoyed.

"Do you think Papa liked it?" James asks.

"Of course he did." Blaine plucks James from the top of the piano and kisses his forehead. "He loves anything you do."

Mari takes his hand.

"Both of you," Blaine says, leaning his head against hers. He squeezes her hand.

It is their second Christmas without Kurt.

And maybe they'll be okay.


End file.
